His Merciless Marriage Bargain

He wasn’t ready. He was still struggling to come to terms with his brother’s death and refused to have Antonio’s memory darkened, his name besmirched, by those consumed with greed. “This isn’t a conversation I intend to continue on the streets of Venice,” he ground out. He was usually so good at avoiding confrontations. He knew how to manage conflict. And yet here they were, staging an epic soap opera, just a block off the Grand Canal. It couldn’t be more public. “Nor am I about to let you abuse my family. If there is to be a story, I shall provide the story, not you.”

“It’s a little late for that, Signor Marcello. The story has been captured on a half-dozen different cameras. I guarantee within the hour you’ll find those images online. Tabloids pay—”

“I’m fully aware of how the paparazzi works.”

“Then you’re also aware of what they have to work with—me handing the baby to your employee, you chasing after me and now us arguing in front of my water taxi.” She paused. “Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to have just taken my phone call?”

His gaze swept her face. He felt an uneasy memory of another woman who looked very much like this American Rachel Bern...

Another beautiful brunette who had been exquisitely confident...

He pushed the memory of his fiancée, Adelisa, from mind, but her memory served a purpose. It reminded him of his vow that he’d never let a woman have the upper hand again. Fortunately, he knew that stories could be massaged, and facts weren’t always objective. Rachel had come to give the photographers a fantastic shot, something they could take to every newspaper and magazine, and Gio could help her with that. He could ensure the paparazzi photographers with their telephoto lenses had something significant to capture, something that would derail her strategy.

Giovanni pulled her to him, one arm locking around her waist, the other hand free to lift her face. Holding her captive, he cupped her chin and jaw, angling her face up to his. He saw a flare of panic in her eyes, the brown irises shot with flecks of green and gold, before he dropped his head, capturing her mouth with his.

She stiffened, her lips still, her breath bottling. He could feel her fear and tension and he instantly gentled the kiss. Although he’d reached for her in anger, he wasn’t in the habit of kissing a woman in anger.

Her mouth was soft and warm. Despite her tension, she was soft and warm and he pulled her closer, tipping her head farther back to tease her lips. He stroked the seam with the tip of his tongue, her mouth generous and pliant. A quiver raced through her, her body shuddering against him and he stroked the seam again, playing with the full upper lip, catching the bow gently in his teeth.

She made a hoarse sound, not in pain, but pleasure, and a lance of hot desire streaked through him, making him hard all over.

He deepened the kiss, her lips parting for him, giving him access to the sweet heat of her mouth. It had been months since he’d enjoyed a kiss half so much, and he took his time, the kiss an exploration of taste and texture and response. His tongue traced the edge of her upper lip and he felt her shudder, her mouth opening wider.

She tasted sweet and hot, but also surprisingly innocent, and his body throbbed, blood drumming in his veins. With his arm in the small of her back, he pulled her even closer, stroking her mouth, over her lower lip, and then finding her tongue, making her shiver again.

Her breathless sighs and little shivers whetted his appetite. It’d been a long time since he felt hunger like this. It had been a year and a half since he’d broken things off with his last mistress, and he’d spent evenings with different women since, but he hadn’t slept with any of them. How could he when there was no desire? Antonio’s death had numbed him to everything, until now.

Abruptly Gio released Rachel and took a step back, his pulse thudding hard and heavy, echoing the hot ache in his groin. She stood dazed and motionless, her brown eyes cloudy and bemused.

“That should give your photographer friends something intriguing to sell.” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. “It will be interesting to see what story the papers run with the addition of these news shots. Is it really about the baby? Or is this more? A lover’s quarrel, their passionate encounter, an emotional goodbye?”

She exhaled, her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes overly bright. “Why?” she choked.

“Because this is my city and my home, and you are the outsider here. If there is to be a story, it’s going to be my story, not yours.”

“And what is that story, Signor Marcello?”

“Let’s make this easier. It’s always best to keep the story simple. I am Giovanni—close friends and family call me Gio, and you may call me Gio—and I shall call you Rachel.”

“I prefer the formal.”

“But it rings false,” he answered, reaching out to lift a dark glossy tendril of hair from her cheek and carefully smooth it back from her face. Her skin was soft and so very warm and he was reminded of the kiss, and the heat and the sweetness of her mouth. Such a mouth. The things he could do to her mouth. He still felt carnal and hungry. Desire still ran hot in his veins. It was a novelty after so many months of grief and emptiness. “We are no longer strangers. We have a history. A story. And the media, I think, will be enamored with our story.”

“The only story is the truth. You have a nephew you refuse to acknowledge, never mind support.”

“But is he my nephew?”

“Yes, you know he is. I’ve sent you the birth certificate and we can do a DNA test while I’m here—”

“Proving what?” he retorted. Before she could answer, he reached for her again, his hand coiling in her long dark hair, tilting her head back to take her mouth in a long, searing kiss.

She didn’t stiffen or resist. If anything, she leaned into him and he wrapped an arm around her slender frame holding her against him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth, tasting her, weakening her defenses. By the time he lifted his head, she was silent, no fight left in her. Her wide brown eyes looked up into his.

“You should never underestimate your opponent, Rachel,” he said quietly, running his thumb lightly across her soft flushed cheek. “And you most definitely shouldn’t have underestimated me.”

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL COULDN’T THINK. Her brain was foggy, and her body had gone to mush. She could barely control her limbs much less her wild emotions. What had just happened? And how had she lost power so quickly?

It was the kiss. The kiss had been her undoing. It was that good. He was that good. And if Antonio had kissed Juliet this way, Rachel almost understood why Juliet lost her head.

“Now you’re going to wrap your arm about my waist,” Giovanni said, his hand settling low on her back, hand warm against the base of her spine, “and we’re going to retrace our steps and we’ll return to my house together.”

“I’m not going to—”

He captured her face, kissing her again, deeply, teasing, stroking her lips and the inside of her mouth, setting her body on fire, destroying her resistance. She reached for his sweater, clinging to the softness, needing support, but the cashmere stretched, yielding, and she leaned against his chest, unable to stand.

“Stop fighting me, and put your arm around me,” he murmured, his deep voice in her ear. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

Her hand turned into a fist and she pressed it against his torso, pushing back at him, angry and off balance, not sure how he’d flipped everything around, seizing control from her. His body was so warm, heat emanated from him, making her want to step closer, not farther away. It was so confusing. She pressed her fist into him, pressing against the lean, hard muscle of his torso. “You’re the one playing a game, Giovanni.”

“Oh, yes, and it is my game.”

She licked the swollen fullness of her upper lip. Her mouth still tingled and throbbed from the kisses. “The rules don’t make sense.”

“That’s because you’re not thinking clearly. Later it will be clear to you.”

“But that could be too late.”

He stroked her hot cheek. “Very true.”

That light caress made her pulse jump. Her legs still weren’t steady. “You need to stop touching me.”

His head dipped, his lips against her brow, and then another light kiss high on her cheekbone, his deep voice humming through her. “You shouldn’t have started this.”

She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her earlobe, the touch warm and light, making her skin tingle. “Stop. This is about Michael, and only Michael,” she protested, but her voice was weak and she didn’t sound convincing, not even to herself.

He knew, too. She could tell by the glint in his eyes, a bright fierce flash of triumph. He thought he’d won, and maybe he had won this one battle, but it was an isolated battle and he hadn’t won the war. At the same time, she couldn’t secure Michael’s future by remaining outside, bickering.

Or kissing. Because she didn’t kiss strangers. She wasn’t free with her affections. If anything, she was a little nervous around men, not having a lot of confidence in herself as a woman. It’d been years since she’d been out on a proper date, and Juliet used to say that men would like her better if she’d just relax and not take herself so seriously.

It wasn’t that Rachel took herself so seriously, but she didn’t know how to flirt, and she wasn’t about to resort to flattery just to make a man feel good. Fortunately, in her job she didn’t have to flatter and charm, she just needed to know her aircraft, and she did. It was easy to be enthusiastic about luxury planes and all the different ways one could customize an AeroDynamics jet interior.

“Ready to go in?” Giovanni asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Or do we need to give our photographer friends another passionate embrace?”

“No!” Reluctantly she slid her arm around his waist, shuddering as he drew her close to his hip, and then they were walking, but she couldn’t even feel her legs.

This was crazy. She couldn’t wrap her head around everything that had just happened. Perhaps he was crazy. Perhaps she’d just thrown herself from the fire into the frying pan. Was that the expression? In her dazed state, she couldn’t be sure of anything right now. His kisses... They’d wrecked her. His touch absolutely baffled her.

No one touched her. No one wanted to kiss her. And she knew he didn’t really want to kiss her, but he’d done it to shift the power, seize control. It had been a shocking move but surprisingly effective. That’s the part she didn’t understand. When had kissing someone become the way to handle a situation? And why had it worked so well on her? She should have been able to resist him. She should have been outraged and offended and not melted.

And she had melted. Into a puddle of boneless, spineless sensation.

But now she needed to gather herself and focus and think. Think. She needed a new plan, and quickly.

They were crossing the pavement, approaching the palazzo, and while she dreaded entering Giovanni’s home, she’d at least have Michael back.

Rachel suddenly stumbled, tripping over her own feet. His arm tightened around her, and he drew her firmly against his side. “Too close,” she protested.

“I can feel you trembling. If I let you go, you’ll fall.”

“Blame yourself. You had no business kissing me.”

“Has it been that long since you’ve been properly kissed?”

“I wouldn’t call it a proper kiss. In America we don’t manhandle women.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that American men don’t know how to handle women. Such a shame.” They paused several feet from the door. He tilted her face up, stared into her eyes. “You look better now that you’ve been kissed, though. Less pale and pinched.” He smiled into her eyes but there was a predatory gleam in the blue depths. “Do you want to thank me now, or later?”

She knew what he was doing, striking a pose, giving the photographers more pictures with different angles for a wide variety of shots, but it infuriated her that he’d taken her big moment and turned it into his. “This is going to end badly,” she said tightly.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he stared down into her face for a long, tense moment, before laughing shortly. “Are you just now figuring that out?”

The front door suddenly swung open, and he kept her close as they entered the palazzo, passing through the high wooden doors and into the cavernous central hall lit by an enormous Murano chandelier, at least seven feet tall, a masterpiece of sparkling glass leaves, flowers and fruits all set amongst intricate, delicate glass rods and fanciful, fragile arabesques.

A member of his staff had obviously been at the front door watching and waiting for them, as the front door opened before Giovanni could touch it, and then closed quietly behind them. Rachel turned her head, craning to see if it was the old man who’d answered the door earlier, but Giovanni was urging her forward, moving her toward the stairs.

Think, she told herself. She needed to clear her head and follow a thought all the way through instead of this—this capitulation of reason and control.

“You can let me go now,” she said, shrugging to free herself. “There are no cameras here.”

His arm fell away but his fingers remained low on her spine, creating insistent pressure as he marched her up the sweeping marble stairs to a formal salon on the second floor. The doors again magically closed behind them and only then did Giovanni’s hand leave her.

She felt more than a little lost as she glanced around a room that could only be described as magnificent. More glittering chandeliers lined the ceiling, with matching sconces on the wall. Tall windows overlooked the canal while massive framed mirrors covered portions of the walls, the antique mirrors reflecting the gray light outside, highlighting the frescoed and plasterwork ceiling.

Rachel was out of her element but she’d never let him know. It was bad enough that he thought she’d enjoyed his kiss.

“Who has Michael?” she asked, standing stiffly in the center of the room. “Can you send for him?”

“No.” Giovanni gestured for her to sit. “We have quite a lot to discuss before he joins us.”

“We can talk once he’s back with me.”

“You left him here. I’m not about to just hand him over as if he were a lost wallet or umbrella.”

“You know why I did that.”

“I know you’re an impulsive woman—”

“You could not be more wrong. I am a very calm person—” She went quiet as she saw the lift on his eyebrow. “You’re making me upset. You’ve been impossible from the start.”

“We’ve only just met, and it was not an auspicious first meeting, with you abandoning an infant on my doorstep, and then running from the scene.”

Rachel clamped her jaw tight to keep from speaking too quickly, aware that every word could and would be used against her. She fought to control the pitch and tone of her voice. “I did not abandon him. I would not ever abandon him. I love him.”

“Odd way of showing it, don’t you think?”

“I was trying to get your attention.”

“And now you have it.” He gestured again toward the silk upholstered chair and sofa. “May I help you with your coat?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”

He gave her an odd look, his lips twisting as if amused. “Are you sure you won’t be more comfortable?”

“I’ll be more comfortable when I have the baby.”

“He’s in good hands at the moment, and we have a great deal to discuss before he joins us. So I do suggest you try to be comfortable, since the conversation probably won’t be.” Gio’s gaze rested intently on her face before dropping to study the rest of her. “It’s been an unusually eventful morning. I’m sending for a coffee. Would you like one?”

She shook her head, and then changed her mind. “Yes, please.”

He reached for his phone from a pocket and shot off a message. “Coffee should be here soon,” he said, sitting down in the pale blue silk armchair facing the upholstered sofa. He stretched his legs before him, looking at ease. “Are you quite certain you wish to stand for the rest of the day?”

His tone was lazy, almost indulgent, and it provoked her more than if he’d spoken to her sternly. She felt her face flush and her body warm. “I certainly have no intention of being here more than a half hour at most.”

“You think we can sort out Michael’s future in thirty minutes or less?”

He sounded pleasant and reasonable, too reasonable, and it put her on guard, hands clenching at her sides, knuckles aching with the tightness of the grip. He was easier to fight when he was defensive and angry. Now she felt as if she were the difficult one.

It wasn’t fair but clearly he didn’t play by any rules but his own.

Drawing a quick breath, she sat down on the edge of the small wood framed sofa, the elegant and delicate shape popular hundreds of years ago, the silver silk fabric gleaming with bits of red and pale blue threads.

She folded her hands in her lap, waiting for him to speak. It was a tactic that worked well with her wealthy clients. They preferred being in control, and they felt most in control when they could dictate the conversation. She’d let Gio direct the conversation. He’d think he was in charge that way and she could use the time to regroup and plan.

But Giovanni was in no hurry to speak. He leaned back in his chair, legs extended, and watched her.

There was no sound in the grand room. No ticking clock. No creaking of any sort. Just silence, and the silence was excruciating.

Her pulse quickened as time stretched, lengthening, testing her patience. Her nerves felt wound to a breaking point. She exhaled hard. “If we don’t speak it will definitely take longer than a half hour to sort out Michael’s future,” she said shortly, irritated beyond reason with Giovanni. He was playing a game with her even now, and it made her impossibly angry.

“I was giving you time to compose yourself,” he answered with a faint smile. “You were trembling so much earlier I thought you could use a bit of time for rest and reflection.”

“It was cold and damp and windy outside. I was freezing, thus the shivers. It’s a natural reaction when chilled.”

“Are you cold now?”

“No, this room is heated. It’s quite nice in here.”

One of his black brows lifted ever so slightly but he didn’t speak, and her stomach did a nervous flip-flop.

He was toying with her deliberately. She was certain he wanted to make her uneasy. But why? Did he think she’d collapse into tears? She didn’t like the silence but it was preferable to being held and touched. She had an excellent head for business and had proven herself remarkably good at establishing and maintaining professional relationships, but personal relationships, those were problematic.

She hadn’t dated enough when she was younger. Although it’d be tempting to blame the opposite sex for failing to notice her, it wasn’t entirely true. She lacked confidence and had failed to put herself out there. Dating seemed to require too much energy and effort, with too many ups and downs to make the dashed dreams and rejection worthwhile.

Instead she focused on work, pouring herself into the job, earning promotions and bonuses as well as praise from senior management. While other young women her age were busy falling in love and needing time off for romantic weekends and holidays, she closed deals and made AeroDynamics money and found tremendous satisfaction in being the one everyone could count on for being there and doing what needed to be done.

Which was all very good and well at the corporate office, but sitting here in this enormous room, facing a tall, handsome, charismatic Italian, she was secretly terrified. She could sell a man a thirty-million-dollar airplane, but she fell apart when kissed, especially if the kiss was dark and sexual, destroying all rational thought.

“The silence is soothing, is it not?” she asked, struggling to sound as relaxed as he appeared.

He seemed to check a smile, grooves bracketing his firm mouth. “Indeed.”

“I hope we can drink our coffee in silence. Silence makes everything better,” she added, frustration growing. “Especially when it’s in such an impressive room.” She glanced around the salon, the proportions alone overwhelming, never mind the grand paintings and light fixtures. “I suppose you hoped to intimidate me by bringing me here to your grand salon.”

“This is not by any means my most impressive room. It’s actually one of the smaller salons on this floor, considered by most to be intimate and welcoming.” His lashes dropped, concealing the intense blue of his eyes. “It’s my mother’s favorite. If she were here, she’d serve you coffee here.”

Embarrassed, Rachel bit her lip and glanced away, more self-conscious and resentful than ever. Two weeks ago, when her private investigator gave her Giovanni’s address and she realized she’d have to come to Venice to get him to meet with her, she’d pictured meeting him somewhere neutral and public, perhaps at her hotel in one of the cheerful pleasant rooms downstairs, or maybe a quiet restaurant tucked away off the more public thoroughfares.

She’d imagined he’d be proud and arrogant, possibly grim and unsmiling. It hadn’t once crossed her mind that he’d kiss her, and then walk her into his home and shut the door and create this awful air of privacy. Intimacy. She swallowed hard and struggled to think of something to say. “Does your mother live here?”

“Part of the year. During the winter she likes to go to her sister’s in Sorrento.” He rose from his chair and walked toward the wall of tall windows, pausing before one window, his gaze fixed intently on a distant point.

She wondered if he was looking for the photographers, or if there was something else happening on the lagoon. She used the opportunity to study him. He was easily six-two, maybe taller, and his shoulders were broad, his spine long, tapering to a lean waist and powerful legs. Even from the back he crackled with authority and power. He was not the recluse she’d imagined.

Still staring out, Gio added, “I confess, I’m surprised you never reached out to her. I would have thought that in your desperation you would have approached her. Who to better love and accept a bambino than the grandmother?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I did reach out.”

He turned to look at her. “And?”

“She wasn’t interested.”

“Is that what she said?”

“No. She never responded.”

“She probably didn’t get your messages then.”

“I didn’t just call. I wrote letters, too.”

“All sent to the Marcello corporate office in Rome?”

Rachel nodded.

His shoulders shifted. “Then that is why she didn’t receive them. Anything to my mother would go to my assistant, and my assistant wouldn’t forward.”

“Why not? It was important correspondence.”

“My assistant was under strict instructions to not disturb my mother with anything troubling, or upsetting. My mother hasn’t been well for a while.”

“I would imagine that she’d be delighted to discover that Antonio had left a piece of him behind.”

“I can’t—and won’t—get her hopes up, not if she is being used, or manipulated.”

“I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“No? You wouldn’t have asked her for money if she’d responded? You wouldn’t have demanded support?” He saw her expression and smiled grimly. “You would have, and you know it. I do, too, which is why I had to protect her, and shield her from stress.”

“I would think that having a beautiful grandson—Antonio’s son—in her arms would help her heal.”

“If the child in question really was Antonio’s...maybe.”

“Michael is Antonio’s.”

“I don’t know that.”

“I have proof.”

“DNA tests?” he mocked, walking again, now prowling the perimeter of the room. “I’ll do my own, thank you.”